The Lesser Bourgeoisie by Honore de Balzac (best ereader for graphic novels TXT) 📕

monsieur,--Mercury, the cleverest of the gods of paganism,--what was

he but the police incarnate? It is true that he was also the god of

thieves. We are better than he, for we don't allow that junction of

forces."

"And yet," said la Peyrade, "Vautrin, or, I should say, Jacques

Collin, the famous chief of the detective police--"

"Yes, yes! but that's in the lower ranks," replied Corentin, resuming

his walk; "there's always a muddy place somewhere. Still, don't be

mistaken even in that. Vautrin is a man of genius, but his passions,

like those of your uncle, dragged him down. But go up higher (for

there lies the whole question, namely, the rung of the ladder on which

a man has wits enough to perch). Take the prefect, for instance, that

honored minister, flattered and respected, is he a spy? Well, I,

monsieur, am the prefect of the secret police of diplomacy--of the

highest statesmanship. And you hesitate to mount that throne!--to seem

small and do great things; to live in a cave comfortably arranged like

this, and command the light; to have at your orders an invisible army,

always ready, always devoted, always submissive; to know the _other

side_ of everything; to be duped by no intrigue because you hold the

threads of all within your fingers; to see through all partitions; to

penetrate all secrets, search all hearts, all consciences,--these are

the things you fear! And yet you were not afraid to go and wallow in a

Thuillier bog; you, a thoroughbred, allowed yourself to be harnessed

to a hackney-coach, to the ignoble business of electing that parvenu

bourgeois."

"A man does what he can," said la Peyrade.

"Here's a very remarkable thing," pursued Corentin, replying to his

own thought; "the French language, more just than public opinion, has

given us our right place, for it has made the word police the synonym

of civilization and the antipodes of savage life, when it said and

wrote: 'l'Etat police,' from the Greek words state and city. So, I can

assure you, we care little for the prejudice that tries to brand us;

none know men as we do; and to know them brings contempt for their

contempt as well as for their esteem."

"There is certainly much truth in what you say with such warmth," said

la Peyrade, finally.

"Much truth!" exclaimed Corentin, going back to his chair, "say,

rather, that it is all true, and nothing but the truth; yet it is not

the whole truth. But enough for to-day, monsieur. To succeed me in my

functions, and to marry your cousin with a 'dot' that will not be less

than five hundred thousand francs, that is my offer. I do not ask you

for an answer now. I should have no confidence in a determination not

seriously reflected upon. To-morrow, I shall be at home all the

morning. I trust that my conviction may then have formed yours."

Dismissing his visitor with a curt little bow, he added: "I do not bid

you adieu, but au revoir, Monsieur de la Peyrade."

Whereupon Corentin went to a side-table, where he found all that he

needed to prepare a glass of "eau sucree," which he had certainly

earned, and, without looking at la Peyrade, who left the room rather

stunned, he seemed to have no other interest on his mind than that

prosaic preparation.

Was it, indeed, necessary that the morning after this meeting with

Corentin a visit from Madame Lambert, now become an exacting and

importunate creditor, should come to bear its weight on la Peyrade's

determination? As the great chief had pointed out to him the night

before, was there not in his nature, in his mind, in his aspirations,

in the mistakes and imprudences of his past life, a sort of

irresistible incline which drew him down toward the strange solution

of existence thus suddenly offered to him?

Fatality, if we may so call it, was lavish of the inducements to which

he was destined to succumb. This day was the 31st of October; the

vacation of the Palais was just over. The 2nd of November was the day

on which the courts reopened, and as Madame Lambert left his room he

received a summons to appear on that day before the Council of his

order.

To Madame Lambert, who pressed him sharply to repay her, under

pretence that she was about to leave Monsieur Picot and return to her

native place, he replied: "Come here the day after to-morrow, at the

same hour, and your money will be ready for you."

To the summons to give account of his actions to his peers he replied

that he did not recognize the right of the Council to question him on

the facts of his private life. That was an answer of one sort,

certainly. Inevitably it would result in his being stricken from the

roll of the barristers of the Royal courts; but, at least, it had an

air of dignity and protestation which saved, in a measure, his

self-love.

Finally, he wrote a letter to Thuillier, in which he said that his

visit to du Portail had resulted in his being obliged to accept

another marriage. He therefore returned to Thuillier his promise, and

took back his own. All this was curtly said, without the slightest

expression of regret for the marriage he renounced. In a postscript he

added: "We shall be obliged to discuss my position on the newspaper,"

--indicating that it might enter into his plans not to retain it.

He was careful to make a copy of this letter, and an hour later, when,

in Corentin's study, he was questioned as to the result of his night's

reflections, he gave that great general, for all answer, the

matrimonial resignation he had just despatched.

"That will do," said Corentin. "But as for your position on the

newspaper, you may perhaps have to keep it for a time. The candidacy

of that fool interferes with the plans of the government, and we must

manage in some way to trip up the heels of the municipal councillor.

In your position as editor-in-chief you may find a chance to do it,

and I think your conscience won't kick at the mission."

"No, indeed!" said la Peyrade, "the thought of the humiliations to

which I have been so long subjected will make it a precious joy to

lash that bourgeois brood."

"Take care!" said Corentin; "you are young, and you must watch against

those revengeful emotions. In our austere profession we love nothing

and we hate nothing. Men are to us mere pawns of wood or ivory,

according to their quality--with which we play our game. We are like

the blade that cuts what is given it to cut, but, careful only to be

delicately sharpened, wishes neither harm nor good to any one. Now let

us speak of your cousin, to whom, I suppose, you have some curiosity

to be presented."

La Peyrade was not obliged to pretend to eagerness, that which he felt

was genuine.

"Lydie de la Peyrade," said Corentin, "is nearly thirty, but her

innocence, joined to a gentle form of insanity, has kept her apart

from all those passions, ideas, and impressions which use up life, and

has, if I may say so, embalmed her in a sort of eternal youth. You

would not think her more than twenty. She is fair and slender; her

face, which is very delicate, is especially remarkable for an

expression of angelic sweetness. Deprived of her full reason by a

terrible catastrophe, her monomania has something touching about it.

She always carries in her arms or keeps beside her a bundle of linen

which she nurses and cares for as though it were a sick child; and,

excepting Bruneau and myself, whom she recognizes, she thinks all

other men are doctors, whom she consults about the child, and to whom

she listens as oracles. A crisis which lately happened in her malady

has convinced Horace Bianchon, that prince of science, that if the

reality could be substituted for this long delusion of motherhood, her

reason would assert itself. It is surely a worthy task to bring back

light to a soul in which it is scarcely veiled; and the existing bond

of relationship has seemed to me to point you out as specially

designated to effect this cure, the success of which Bianchon and two

other eminent doctors who have consulted with him declare to be beyond

a doubt. Now, I will take you to Lydie's presence; remember to play

the part of doctor; for the only thing that makes her lose her

customary serenity is not to enter into her notion of medical

consultation."

After crossing several rooms Corentin was on the point of taking la

Peyrade into that usually occupied by Lydie when employed in cradling

or dandling her imaginary child, when suddenly they were stopped by

the sound of two or three chords struck by the hand of a master on a

piano of the finest sonority.

"What is that?" asked la Peyrade.

"That is Lydie," replied Corentin, with what might be called an

expression of paternal pride; "she is an admirable musician, and

though she no longer writes down, as in the days when her mind was

clear, her delightful melodies, she often improvises them in a way

that moves me to the soul--the soul of Corentin!" added the old man,

smiling. "Is not that the finest praise I can bestow upon her? But

suppose we sit down here and listen to her. If we go in, the concert

will cease and the medical consultation begin."

La Peyrade was amazed as he listened to an improvisation in which the

rare union of inspiration and science opened to his impressionable

nature a source of emotions as deep as they were unexpected. Corentin

watched the surprise which from moment to moment the Provencal

expressed by admiring exclamations.

"Hein! how she plays!" said the old man. "Liszt himself hasn't a

firmer touch."

To a very quick "scherzo" the performer now added the first notes of

an "adagio."

"She is going to sing," said Corentin, recognizing the air.

"Does she sing too?" asked la Peyrade.

"Like Pasta, like Malibran; but hush, listen to her!"

After a few opening bars in "arpeggio" a vibrant voice resounded, the

tones of which appeared to stir the Provencal to the depths of his

being.

"How the music moves you!" said Corentin; "you were undoubtedly made

for each other."

"My God! the same air! the same voice!"

"Have you already met Lydie somewhere?" asked the great master of the

police.

"I don't know--I think not," answered la Peyrade, in a stammering

voice; "in any case, it was long ago--But that air--that voice--I

think--"

"Let us go in," said Corentin.

Opening the door abruptly, he entered, pulling the young man after

him.

Sitting with her back to the door, and prevented by the sound of the

piano from hearing what happened behind her, Lydie did not notice

their entrance.

"Now have you any remembrance of her?" said Corentin.

La Peyrade advanced a step, and no sooner had he caught a glimpse of

the girl's profile than he threw up his hands above his head, striking

them together.

"It is she!" he cried.

Hearing his cry, Lydie turned round, and fixing her attention on

Corentin, she said:--

"How naughty and troublesome you are to come and disturb me; you know

very well I don't like to be listened to. Ah! but--" she added,

catching sight of la Peyrade's black coat, "you have brought the

doctor; that is very kind of you; I was just going to ask you to send

for him. The baby has done nothing but cry since morning; I was

singing to put her to sleep, but nothing can do that."

And she ran to fetch what she called her child from a corner of the

room, where with two chairs laid on their backs and the cushions of

the sofa, she had constructed a sort of cradle.

As she went towards la Peyrade, carrying her precious bundle with one

hand, with the other she was arranging the imaginary cap of her

"little darling," having no eyes except for the sad creation of her

disordered brain. Step by step, as she advanced, la Peyrade, pale,

trembling, and with staring eyes, retreated backwards, until he struck

against a seat, into which, losing his equilibrium, he fell.

A man of Corentin's power and experience, and who, moreover, knew to

its slightest detail the horrible drama in which Lydie had lost her

reason, had already, of course, taken in the situation, but it suited

his purpose and his ideas to allow the clear light of evidence to

pierce this darkness.

"Look, doctor," said Lydie, unfastening the bundle, and putting the

pins in her mouth as she did so, "don't you see that she is growing

thinner every day?"

La Peyrade could not answer; he kept his handkerchief over his face,

and his breath came so fast from his chest that he was totally unable

to utter a word.

Then, with one of those gestures of feverish impatience, to